Final Witness

by J F Straker

  Drops of moisture rolled down his cheeks, missing his mouth so that he had no way of knowing whether they were rain or blood. The back of his head was sore and there were pains in most of his body, but he decided that no bones were broken. He wondered about Winstone. Winstone must have been flung from the car as it hit the bank. He would be lying out in the field, unconscious or badly injured, perhaps even dead.

  Help was not long in arriving, but to David it seemed like an age. A car pulled up on the road, and then another. He could hear excited, agitated voices, a woman’s among them. There was the sound of tearing cloth as someone pushed too impetuously through the hedge, and David felt the Alvis slip a little. He braced himself, expecting it to escape from the tenuous clutch of the hedge and slide farther. But his nerves had played him false. The Alvis stayed put. The voices came from his left now, and he called out shakily, ‘Over here! I’m stuck!’

  Almost immediately faces were peering down at him; one bearded, one bespectacled, one smooth and round and shining. The Beard said heartily, ‘Hang on, old man. We’ll soon have you out of this,’ and insinuated a pair of large, capable hands behind his shoulders. As the hands pressed down into his armpits David said desperately, ‘Take it easy, for God’s sake! Don’t rock the boat. She’ll slip.’

  ‘We’ll watch it.’

  The hands gripped his arms. There were other hands at his ankles. The Beard said cheerfully, ‘We’ve got a rope round the axle. She may wriggle a bit, but she can’t slip. Firm as the Rock of Gibraltar.’

  David went limp with relief. Gently they lifted him from the Alvis and laid him on a rug on the wet grass, and then stood gazing anxiously down at him. He closed his eyes, allowing new life to flow through him. Then a girl’s voice said, ‘You shouldn’t have moved him. There may be broken bones, internal injuries.’ She sounded nearer than the others, and he opened his eyes to find her kneeling beside him, a handkerchief held in readiness above his head.

  He smiled at her. She was a pretty girl; dark-haired, with sad oriental eyes in an olive, pear-shaped face. He said weakly, ‘I’m all right, thanks,’ and started to raise himself on his elbows. The bespectacled young man knelt quickly to support him. ‘Thanks,’ David said again, and sat up. A few yards to his right a man and a woman were kneeling; another man stood behind them. They had their backs to him, obscuring the object of their attention. All he could see was the top of the dark woolly head. Winstone!’ he exclaimed. ‘How is he?’

  ‘The darkie?’ The bearded man grinned reassuringly. ‘Sore, I guess. The hedge did its worst, but it wasn’t lethal. No serious damage. He could do with a few stitches and some plaster, though. We ought to get him to a doctor.’

  It was still raining. David wiped the drops from his face and struggled to his feet. They held him while he tested his legs and felt them firm under him; then they let him go. He walked unsteadily across the sodden, uneven ground to the group on his right, the girl hovering anxiously beside him, her hand at his elbow. She seemed reluctant to leave him.

  Winstone was sitting up. His face was a mass of cuts and scratches, from which the blood seeped steadily, despite the gentle staunching from the kneeling woman. There was blood on his hands, a long slit in the black raincoat. One of his sandals was missing, the big toe protruding aggressively from a large hole in his sock. With the scars of his previous injuries still fresh on him he looked a sorry mess.

  When he saw David he grinned. He said jerkily, his voice high pitched, ‘Man, you sure made the third one a real beaut!’

  David grinned back. For the first time since they had met he experienced a feeling akin to amity towards his companion.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘But it wasn’t my fault.’

  ‘What happened?’ the bearded man asked.

  David hesitated. He looked at the dark, blood-stained face of the man on the ground. Did Winstone realize what had happened? Perhaps. But for the present it must remain their secret. He did not want to be delayed by questions, by police investigation. He and Winstone had a job to do, and the sooner they got on with it the better.

  ‘A car overtook us. It crowded me a bit, and I got into a skid. Then we hit the bank, and over we went.’ He shrugged. ‘We could both have been going too fast.’

  ‘Didn’t the other chap stop?’

  ‘No. I don’t think he realized what had happened.’

  There were other cars pulling up on the road, more people pouring through the hedge and crowding round and asking questions. David looked at his watch. It indicated twenty minutes past twelve, and he held it to his ear, thinking that it had stopped. No, it was still ticking evenly. Was it only fifty minutes since they had halted at the traffic lights in Salisbury and he had seen the green Austin behind him? Had so much happened in so short a time?

  He tried to plan constructively. Unless they were lucky enough to obtain a lift they could not continue their journey by road. The Alvis had had it; they must go on by train. It was unlikely that they would make Helston that night, but provided they could reach a main line station quickly they should be able to get within striking distance. Salisbury was the obvious choice, and he said to the bearded man, ‘How about that doctor? Can you give us a lift back to Salisbury?’

  ‘Well, I could. I was making for Wincanton. But if no one else —’

  ‘We’ll take you,’ the bespectacled young man broke in. ‘My father’s a doctor there; we’re on our way to have lunch with him. He’ll fix your friend up.’

  David thanked him. He presumed that the almond-eyed girl was his wife. He said, ‘We have to get to Cornwall to-night. I suppose there’s a train?’

  ‘Should be. We’ll sort that one out later, shall we?’

  They retrieved Winstone’s missing sandal and helped him to his feet. David was worried about the man. He was shaky on his legs and his eyes looked dazed; it was possible that he was suffering from shock or concussion. I may have to leave him in Salisbury, he thought, and go on without him. He doesn’t look as though he could take a long train journey.

  While willing hands helped Winstone to the road, David collected his gear from the Alvis. He felt sad at leaving her. The obvious damage was bad enough; buckled wings and battered coachwork, torn hood, petrol tank and radiator holed and leaking, lamps smashed. But there was probably unseen damage that was far more serious; bent axles, perhaps, or a twisted chassis. The rope that held the front axle to a shattered stump of the hedge did not look very secure, but he supposed the anchorage was the best available.

  Winstone was already in the car when David reached the road. Others were about to leave, including the bearded man and the woman who had attended to Winstone’s injuries. David thanked them both. As he climbed in beside the West Indian he gave a last look at what was visible of the stricken Alvis. It was like deserting a wounded friend. He wondered if they would ever be together again. If so it would probably be an expensive reunion.

  The bespectacled young man introduced himself as Cyril Kingsley. He drove fast, hunched behind the wheel, his body swaying backward and forward. On the seat beside him his wife Olive, her dark eyes full of solicitude, kept turning to look at the two men in the back. Winstone had his eyes closed, his dark head resting against the grey upholstery; he had lost his cap, and no one had thought to look for it. There were dark stains on his raincoat, and he dabbed incessantly at his face with a blood-soaked handkerchief, occasionally opening his eyes to find a dry spot in the handkerchief before applying it again to his face.

  David had a bump on the back of his head, and his body ached. But he felt surprisingly alert. He said, ‘We were lucky to come out of that alive, let alone without serious injury. Particularly Winstone here; his skull must be made of teak. As for me well, it was just a toss up how long that hedge would hold. It felt pretty dicey.’

  ‘It wasn’t,’ Kingsley told him. ‘She might waggle a bit, but it would have taken a hell of a tug to shift her. You could have climbed out any time you felt like it.’

  Da
vid felt deflated. The girl said quickly, ‘You weren’t to know that, of course. It must have been ghastly.’

  They were in Salisbury before one o’clock. Dr Kingsley was a kindly little man who oozed energy and efficiency, and he set to work on Winstone immediately. David was relieved to learn that the cuts were superficial, and that no stitches were necessary. But the man had had a nasty shock, the doctor told him, and was suffering from slight concussion. Bed was the place for him.

  Winstone at once vetoed the suggestion. Fingering the plaster on his face, he said, ‘If Mr Wight going on, then I going with him. No bed for me, Doc. I feeling fine.’

  He looks better, David thought. His eyes are more lively, the grey tinge has gone from his skin. Dr Kingsley shrugged. ‘It’s your body, son. But you won’t feel so chirpy in a few hours from now. That I promise.’

  While Olive Kingsley made what repairs she could to Winstone’s raincoat, David telephoned a garage and the police; impatient of delay, he was relieved to find the latter sympathetic to his desire for haste, a visit to the police-station being obviated by their offer to send an officer to the house. Despite David’s professed reluctance to impose on the little man’s hospitality, Dr Kingsley insisted on giving them lunch. He was a widower, and his sister was also his housekeeper. Unlike the rest of the family, she did not hide her dislike of sitting down to the same table as a coloured man, and studiously avoided addressing Winstone. David did not entirely blame her. Apart from his colour, the West Indian was an unprepossessing sight. With that jagged scar across his forehead, the still evident wounds inflicted by Bandy and his men, and the injuries he had sustained in the accident, Winstone’s face looked like a battlefield that had been fought over many times. Perhaps because he was aware of her disapproval, for most of the meal Winstone was silent. He also ate little. David wondered whether the doctor’s promise was already being fulfilled.

  It was the doctor who sorted out the timetable for them. The two forty-three from Salisbury would take them direct to Okehampton, arriving there at five thirty-nine. ‘There’s a stopping train leaves Okehampton for Wadebridge at five fifty-one,’ he told David. ‘But it’s a damned slow journey. Close on two hours. And I don’t know how you go from there. You’ll probably be stuck at Wadebridge for the night. It’s about forty miles from Helston.’

  Forty miles was not far, thought David. Paul had expected to be in Pendwara by late afternoon; he might be persuaded to send the Jaguar over to Wadebridge to collect them.

  To the police-officer who called after lunch David gave the same account of the accident as he had given to his rescuers. When he mentioned the green Austin the man looked up sharply from his notebook.

  ‘Did you get the number, sir?’

  ‘No. It all happened too quickly.’ The policeman’s obvious interest told David that the question had been more than purely formal. ‘Why?’

  ‘We’ve been notified that a similar car was stolen from a garage in West Kensington early this morning. I suppose you didn’t happen to notice the occupants?’

  ‘Only vaguely. It was pelting with rain, and they had the windows closed. There were two men in front. I think they both wore trilbies, but that’s about as far as I can go.’

  Cyril Kingsley drove them to the station. His wife came with them. For her own peace of mind, she said; she was worried about Winstone. David thought her all a ministering angel should be; gentle, sympathetic, efficient, and beautiful. And he shared her concern over Winstone. The man looked all in. But when, just before leaving the house, the doctor had insisted that he should retire to bed, Winstone had again refused.

  As the train drew out of the station David closed the window and sank into a corner seat. Winstone had already stretched himself out on the cushions opposite, closing his eyes and completely ignoring the only other occupant of the carriage. To the latter, a middle-aged man in a check suit, David offered apology and an explanation.

  The man grunted. ‘Speed!’ he snapped. It’s the cause of most accidents. Every one trying to reach their destination before every one else.’

  David leaned back in his corner and closed his eyes. The journey to Okehampton was for him a mixture of fantasy and reality. For much of the time he slept, and his dreams were not pleasant; but the waking moments were the more uncomfortable. He was obsessed with guilt. He had had twinges of it ever since he had denied his godfather the diary, but for the most part it had remained dormant. Now, with time on his hands and little to do but think, it reared up like a spectre to confront him. He had boasted to Susan that he was way out in front of the Bandy mob, and at the time he had believed that to be true. He had persuaded himself into believing that only he could know where Lumsden and the girl had gone. Now, very forcibly, he had been shown his mistake. As Morgan had suggested, the gang had not only caught up with him, they were ahead of him. They no longer needed him as a guide, or they would have been content to follow. Now he was just an interfering nuisance, to be eliminated as expeditiously as possible. They had tried to knife him, and, when that had failed, they had ruthlessly run him off the road. One slight consolation remained. Since they had not stopped to inspect the result of their manoeuvre, they would assume that he was either dead or incapacitated, and that whatever it was they intended to do with the Lumsdens when they caught up with them could be done in their own time. They would no longer fear pursuit or interference. Not from him.

  The thought did not greatly comfort him. It was no sop to his conscience. As Susan had said, this was not a game he was playing; he was gambling with people’s lives. He should have confided in Morgan last night, when it had been made clear to him that he was no longer leading the field. He might even have telephoned him from Salisbury. Instead, he had allowed a selfish desire to be first to outbid his conscience.

  Between these moments of truth and self-obloquy he dozed, or gazed out of the window, or read his newspaper. For the first hour Winstone stayed flat on his back, apparently asleep. When they stopped at Yeovil, however, he sat up and announced that he felt better — an announcement which was greeted by a scowl from the check-suited gentleman, as though it were reprehensible. Once, when David awoke from a bout of uneasy slumber, it was to hear Winstone muttering a string of imprecations; he was staring out of the window, a deep scowl on his dark, battered face, his fist thumping up and down on his knee. David supposed he was cursing Bandy and all his works — a sentiment with which he wholeheartedly concurred.

  They were ten minutes late at Okehampton, but in time to catch the Wadebridge train. It was, as Dr Kingsley had predicted, a seemingly interminable journey. They shared a carriage with a married couple and their progeny of four, the two youngest of whom were never still, and comparatively silent only when they were sucking sweets. By the time they reached Wadebridge David was tired and depressed; reaction from the accident had begun to set in, and without bothering to inquire if there were a train to take them further he made for a telephone kiosk. If Paul could not arrange to collect them they would stay put for the night. He had had enough of trains.

  He had no luck with Paul. He spent some time trying to raise the inn, only to learn from the supervisor that there had been a violent storm in south Cornwall and that many of the lines were down.

  ‘Well, that’s that,’ he told Winstone. ‘Let’s go find ourselves a bed for the night.’

  He had been through Wadebridge several times, and it had never aroused enthusiasm in him. It did not arouse it now. As they trudged down Molesworth Street looking for an hotel it occurred to him that he was about to be confronted by yet another obstacle; the colour bar. Winstone thought so too. He said, ‘Man, this not going to be easy. They not liking coloured men in hotels. I know.’

  Their pessimism was unjustified. At the first hotel they tried there were vacant rooms and no firm colour bar; the receptionist was startled more by the West Indian’s obvious injuries than by his dark skin. When David told her of the accident she was even sympathetic. They were a little late for
dinner, she said, but there was soup and cold ham and salad if they were hungry.

  They went to bed immediately after the meal. As he lay waiting for sleep to come David had the comforting thought that, if he were beset by enemies, at least there were friendly people around. The Kings-leys, the receptionist, Paul waiting for him at Pendwaraeven Winstone. He knew that he could never learn to like the West Indian, but at least he could trust him. The accident had dispelled the last vestige of doubt. If Winstone had been one of Bandy’s men there would have been no accident. Not with Winstone in the car. They would have managed it some other way.

  There was also Morgan. Despite the attack of conscience in the train he still had not telephoned Morgan. And he would not telephone him on the morrow; he knew that. He had accepted a challenge, and each fresh obstacle merely stiffened his determination to succeed. Irrespective of right or wrong, this was something he had to do.

  I suppose Susan is right, he thought wryly, with unusual insight. I am selfish and stubborn. But at least I’m honest about it.

  * * *

  Fingers drumming impatiently on the desk, the inevitable acid-drop on his tongue, Morgan’s eyes were unblinking as he stared fixedly at the inspector’s face. It was as though he were willing his luck to change.

  ‘Well?’ he demanded, as Nightingale removed the telephone receiver from his ear. ‘Any news?’

  Nightingale shook his head. ‘They want to know if the cars can come off watch.’

  ‘Still no sign of him?’

  ‘None. They’re positive he hasn’t passed through Redruth or Truro.’

  The superintendent looked at his watch. ‘Ten o’clock. Either that rattler of his has broken down or he’s met with an accident. Or...’ He frowned. ‘Ask them to hang on for another hour and then give us a buzz.’